


Light Weight

by lousy_science



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, DC Cinematic Universe, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sports, Gotham City - Freeform, M/M, Photography, powerlifting, weightlifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-23 14:20:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6119101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lousy_science/pseuds/lousy_science
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not that John absolutely has to shoot Bane. It's just that he really, really wants to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"I have to shoot you."

It wasn't John's best line, but in his defense, he was excited.

Still, if he'd had time to think it over, he might've concluded that it wasn't the smartest thing to say to a complete stranger. Particularly if the complete stranger had just stepped off the stage of a powerlifting competition after deadlifting several times John's body weight.

Bane "The Shadow" Dorrance looked down at John with a scowl as deep as the Mariana Trench. John turned up the heat on his most dimple-laden smile. The scowl remained unchanged. John wondered if the guy ate photographers for breakfast, for the extra protein.

In John's experience most powerlifters were cheerful and outgoing types, probably because they could peacefully chill out at the top of the food chain. Dorrance had lifted a new personal best on stage five minutes ago, and now he looked about as jolly as a medieval executioner facing the post-beheading clean up.

“We don’t talk to the press.” The man who stepped in between John and Bane sounded more amused than annoyed. His coach, John figured, glancing at his chalky hands and the large gym bag he was schlepping. He was a wiry-looking guy with a ragged beard and arched eyebrows.

“I’m not press. I mean, I do some freelance for news outlets, but this is for a personal project. On modern-day strongmen. You know, like in the circus?”

Bane spoke for the first time. “Circuses are exactly what we’re avoiding. Excuse us.”

The coach half-smiled at John as he guided Bane away. There was something protective in the gesture, John noticed. Interesting.

Too interesting to give up entirely. He called out in their wake. “The name’s John Blake. Nightwing Photography - look me up."

 

= = =

 

There was feeling, like an itch, that John sometimes felt at the back of his skull, that told him he needed to get his camera ready right now. He couldn't explain it logically, it was as if one of his senses had to trick him into getting his attention. The shape of a face, a body in motion, the way the light was falling on a building - all he had to do was lift his eye to the aperture and take a shot. It always happened too quickly for him to think much about composition, exposure, or any of other technical aspects that he was usually reviewing in his head.

That was how some of his best work had emerged. From a pull from within that came before his consciousness had begun to register a potential subject. John had learned that when that itch hit, he just had to be ready for it.

But not every subject was ready for him.

He was at the Gotham PowerMAX Champs doing a little work at the promo stand of a wearable tech company. In between taking pictures of competitors and fans, he tried to get into as many of the contest rounds as he could. The company's gadget was an armband thing that John had wasted an hour of his life trying to sync to his phone before a sales rep let him into the secret that it didn't really do what it claimed ("It’s still in beta mode"), but he'd worked for them before and it was a steady, if unspectacular, paying gig. The best part was checking out the events in person.

The final contest of the day was the men’s deadlift finals. John had squeezed into the back to get a view, thinking about how tiny the crowd had been at women’s bench that morning. The audience's loss - that had been fantastically exciting to watch and shoot. Harley had set a new state record, and John knew his picture of her doing celebratory cartwheel was a money shot. Should get her some more well-deserved fan interest. Powerlifting was beginning to take off in Gotham, and the women's field was particularly good.

Bane had been the fifth contestant in the deadlift. As soon as he walked out of stage, John's itch hit hard. He was transfixed by Bane's bowlegged swagger, his defensive stance, the striking architecture of his bald head and broad shoulders. All the contestants in this weight class looked extraordinary in some way, assorted behemoths who stood astride the stage like the Colossus of Rhodes. But Bane wore a distinctive look of calm, concentrated focus that seemed to reach down far into his bones.

John felt like he embodied the peacefulness of a monk transposed into the body of a gridiron player.

In one fluid move he reached for the prone weight. And let it go instantly.

A pass. John was still startled by how quickly competitors decided not lift. Harley had explained it to him that morning, how it was a matter of strategy and conserving energy. Her words stuck in his head as he watched Bane move back to the end of the line. “It’s more of a chess game than anyone gives lifters credit for. We're not all meatheads. I mean, I am, of course!"

Over the entire round, Bane passed on every lift except for the final one. 760 lbs were on the rack. The previous contestant, Preston Payne, had already lifted it, but John was impatient for Bane to return, watching him get his hands freshly chalked before moving into place as he had three time already that day.

Same smooth bend down to reach the bar. Then the lift came; John wasn't the only one to gasp. The announcer bounded on stage to announce that Dorrance had lifted a new personal best and that he was an exciting new talent that Gotham needed to watch out for. John wholeheartedly agreed with him that Bane was built for watching.

Bane looked over at the scoreboard and nodded once. John had thought up until then that he didn't have a sense of the audience, but at that gesture he revised his opinion. There was something in the movement that demonstrated a profound understanding of the theatrical. Bane carried himself like he knew he was being closely observed and that he wanted to intimidate every eyeball in the room.

After the final scores had been settled on the leaderboard, John spotted Bane strolling towards the door. His solidity made the posters and cardboard cut-outs littering the walls almost flinch in comparison. John made a beeline for him, driven by his gut more than his brain, getting in his path. Up close he saw how piercing Bane's eyes were. Then he'd blurted his line out and been summarily shot down.

  
Walking back to the booth, John figured he'd given it his best try. It had been a bonus just to see him lift. And if Bane was on the power lifting circuit, they might even run into each other again. With time, Bane might even take his terror-levels down a couple hundred notches.

"Blake! How's it going?"

Waylon "Killer Croc" Jones slapped John on the arm with a hearty thwack. John managed to keep standing despite the impact and give him a bro-hug back. Built like a brick shithouse, Croc had got his nickname from the psoriasis scars on his face. Like John, he had grown up in foster care, and as he'd said in his cover interview for Gotham Muscle & Health Magazine, if it hadn't been for the confidence he'd discovered through weightlifting he'd "have like, lived in a sewer or something, I hated myself so much as a teen. Seeing Pumping Iron on TV changed everything for me."

John had shot the photos that accompanied the article. He always enjoyed working with Croc, who had briefly been a pro wrestler before launching his own range of protein shakes.

"Hey, what do you know about that Bane guy?"

Croc sucked his teeth. "That dude, we call him The Shadow. Ya know why? Comes out of nowhere. Lifts like a goddamn machine. Bench is outta this world. His technique is something else, East-European or Russian I'd say, but no one I know from the European circuit has ever heard of him."

"He got a sponsor yet?"

"Nup. Not looking for one neither. I heard he turned down VitaPro-Z and SquatWat. If he doesn't need the cash that's fine by me, more for the rest of us." Croc shrugged. "He's definitely here to compete, not to make friends."

"His coach is on the defensive side."

"Name is Barsad. Got an accent, like Dorrance, but not I'm sure where from. Someone said he works at a shooting gallery. You know, guns, not cameras."

"Yeah, I've heard about those things."

Croc patted him on the back. "Smart young man. Catholic education done right by you."

"I kinda got the feeling that he's protecting the rest of us from Bane."

"Speak for yourself, boy wonder. Do I look like I need protection?"

"Do you? How did you bust up that arm, after all?"

Croc had dropped out of several recent contests after a mysterious wrist fracture. He did not look pleased at the reminder and patted John's back with a little more force. "I'm not the one who should watch out. Don't get up in Bane's business, that's all I'll say. You don't need that kind of trouble."

John didn't agree. Getting in other people's business happened to be one of his specialties.

 

= = =

 

Another John Blake specialty, though not as much fun as his skill at digging up trouble, was his gift for calming down wedding parties. He could soothe exhausted brides, nervous grooms, and vexed parents, for at least long enough to get them through to the end of the big day. He was able to charm most bridesmaids and groomsmen into sticking out a tough group shots - though he wasn't great at dealing with them when they hit the "drunk and flirting with the hot photographer" stage of the evening.

It was an exhausting job, and every few months he would swear that photographing weddings was taking years off his life. But his rep in the matrimonial bliss market had grown to the point where he could charge a decent rate. Not every wedding was stressful, some were fun, and though he would die happy if he never framed a shot of a pug wearing a floral headdress ever again, he went full capacity that Summer, culminating in a week in August where he'd booked four ceremonies back-to-back.

Part of his survival technique was watching videos of Bane. He couldn’t find many of them, just a couple from PowerMAX and training clips that had been uploaded to Instagram. Barsad really needed to learn to turn his phone sideways when he filmed, but John was grateful for what he could get.

  
At the end of the week John was on the train back to Gotham, returning from his last wedding of the month. It had been held on remote apple farm upstate and rain had hit in the middle of the outdoor ceremony. John had thought the mother of the groom would self-immolate with righteous fury. Not for the first time, the riot training he'd gotten at the Police Academy proved to be useful.

  
He was bone tired and thankful to be returning to the city. Like any true Gothamite, leaving the boundaries of the sprawling, notorious, pollution-filled urban jungle for a quiet rural landscape made him uncomfortable. John liked his trees in parks, his mud trapped under concrete, and his apples in pie form, preferably served on a soggy paper plate by a hostile deli worker in a downtown hole in the wall. He also liked having cell coverage, which had been as rare as hen's teeth at the farm, so seeing his signal sign come back to life was almost as relaxing as the thought of the cold beers he had waiting at home.

John had 57 unread messages. Par for the course for a freelancer, but only one of them made his heart do an embarrassing little flip in his chest.

 

> _From: bane.dorrance@the-reckoninginc.com_  
>  _To: john@nightwingphotography.com_  
>  _Subject: Photography consultation_
> 
>   
>  _Dear Mr. Blake,_
> 
> _I have surveyed your online portfolio. Your work is interesting and you are clearly very competent. It has been suggested that I should have some pictures taken for use in future event promotion. As you appear to have a background in sports photography I thought you would be a suitable choice.  
>  _
> 
> _Please pass on your day rates. I assume a studio hire will be needed, so add that to your estimations._

John immediately Googled the domain Bane's email belonged to, and discovered that The Reckoning, Inc. was a logistics consultancy firm owned and operated by one B. Dorrance. It had been based in Gotham for just under two years.

 

>   _Dear Mr. Dorrance,_
> 
> _  
> Thanks for getting in touch. I was blown away by your performance at PowerMax_

John deleted 'blown away'.

 

> _Thanks for getting in touch. You're a very impressive competitor to watch in action._

He hit delete again. Way too thirsty for a professional message. And if Bane had seen his website, he'd more than likely seen a selection of John's LGBT portraits done in celebration of Gotham's marriage equality law passing. John had worked with a few athletes who'd been initially uncomfortable at the prospect of having a gay photographer, and it generally took a lot of John's diplomacy to get them to relax in his presence.

 

> _Dear Mr. Dorrance,_

> _It was great to hear from you. I've attached my price list and a guide to my availability over the next month. I have a studio in East Gotham that I generally work out of, on Rosemont Ave._

Once the message was sent, John opened up a message to Selina and sent her a series of dancing girl emojis.

 

> _Either you got paid or laid. Which 1 was it boy wonder?_

John rolled his eyes at the eggplant icon she followed up her message with.

 

> _Nah I just survived Wedding-pocalypse and booked a new job s'all_

She sent over a selfie of herself making a very skeptical face. John was outraged enough to invite her around to drink his beers with him. Selina Kyle was cunning, low-minded, and endlessly cynical, which was why she was his BFF, and also why he often told her that he would never do her wedding photography.

 

= = =

 

When Bane walked into Blake's studio, John immediately noticed that he didn't have quite the same swagger. John was used to working with elite athletes, and they didn't always have an off switch. Some were always jockeying for the number one position in any situation, radiating challenge through their body language . But Bane kept his head slightly bowed, his arms close to the side of his body, and hung near the perimeter of the room's walls, which were mostly flimsy dividers that chopped up the shared working space between John and his fellow freelancers. The only other one present then was Cassandra, who was drawing at her desk with her earbuds crammed into her skull as far as she could get them. John knew that a bomb could go off and Cass would remain oblivious to everything but her Warcom tablet and music.

"Coffee, tea, or water?" John threw the question over his shoulder to Bane, who was carefully leafing through one of his portfolios. They had a couple of hours to work, and he wanted Bane to feel as comfortable as possible. "No, thank you," Bane began, his elegant skull dipped down, eyes focused on the open portfolio in his hands. "Or - perhaps some hot water. I bring my my own tea with me. If you do not mind?"

He looked up, his sharp eyes emerging under a furrowed brow. John couldn't wait to photograph him and make a claim on some of those angles his bone structure presented.

"Sure, give me a sec."

Bane's tea smelt mossy and dense, making a dark brew that was presumably bursting at the seams with antioxidants. He asked John if he'd like to try some. John, who was still in the throes of breaking his soda addiction, took one sniff and dreamed of aspartame and artificial colors.

"It smells great, but I'm fine, thanks."

With the fat blue Ikea mug of tea steaming in his hands, Bane looked like the world's most ripped philosophy professor. Wearing head-to-toe black clothing added to the effect, and it made his skin look extra pale, like he'd not had his fair share of summers. John wondered if he'd served time. He'd known plenty of ex-cons, and some of them shared that same sense of impenetrable inner defense.

Over a series of emails they'd decided on three sets of images. Standard headshots, some full-length portraits, and typical lifting pose pictures. Bane had brought a backpack with him that he'd confirmed had his costume.

"Let's start with the pose shots first. You can get changed in there - " John indicated where the bathroom was, but even as he said it Bane had placed his mug down and reached to pull off his t-shirt.

"Ok, just go ahead then. I'll just," John waved his hands around to indicate busyness. Bane continued to strip down dispassionately, clearly not in possession of a single fuck. John still turned to check on his key lights, practiced at staying professional among subjects. He'd been only plenty of shoots with nudity. It was tacky to gawk, and could diminish the relationship between the subject and the photographer.

"Hey, would you like some music?" Bane tilted his head, and John was instantly reminded of a large bulldog making the same quizzical expression. It was a little too adorable a look for a man built to lift up giant weights.

"I do not mind. Please put on whatever you'd enjoy." John's phone had a bunch of carefully created playlists for different moods. He knew exactly which one he wanted, and scrolled down to find it. The opening notes stirred as Bane took his place on the drop cloth.

"We'll start with some standing poses. Arms down, shoulders down. Chin up slightly."

Bane's eyes narrowed for a moment. "Mahler?"

"Yes. Anyone who got banned by Hitler had to have something going for them, right? The Fifth Symphony always gives me chills."

Nodding, Bane unrolled his fists and let his hands hang by his side. The camera's clicks broke into the silence between Bane's movements, the rhythm of shoot settling into place like a subway train rattling over the tracks.


	2. Chapter 2

"Just one more, with the eyes to me."

Bane looked straight down the camera as if he was staring down a firing squad.

John lowered his camera for the last time. "I think we've got it."

"You are finished?"

" _We_ are finished. This was a collaborative work. I know it's not easy. Here, I'll grab you a towel."

Bane accepted it and dabbed at his face. The lights were hot, and he'd been visibly sweaty. It would look great on film, John had told him, while Bane had looked skeptical.  

"Would you like to see?" John held his camera, screen-first, towards Bane, who shook his head.

"While I do not doubt your skills, I will wait. Barsad is the one who is eager to see them."

"He's been your manager for a while?"

"Yes." Bane dropped the used wipe into the wastepaper basket with the same precision of movement he did everything. "We served together, before I moved to Gotham. He followed afterwards and appointed himself to the role."

Switching off his lights, John replied, "Served in the army?"

"A private militia. It was a different sort of life. Brutal, sparse. You learn if you can trust someone. Barsad thought I was missing the competition in my new life here, and he thought this sport would be a type of battle for me." Bane huffed as he said it, as if the idea was laughable.

John wound a cord up. "There's a certain single-mindedness I've seen in sportspeople. It's not even a desire to win, it's a need to. If it's a game of pinochle, they've got to beat the other person."

"I have never played this ‘pinochle’, but I assure you that if I ever did, I would keep on until I was champion."

"I believe it. Remind me not to challenge you to a match."

"Don't think that I'm a sore loser, John Blake. I am just driven to be the best at whatever I do. But I concede when I cannot match up - I could never take pictures as good as yours."

John's first impulse was to downplay the comment, but he bit his lip. Bane's tone was so thoroughly sincere. "Thank you for that. Like anything, it depends on the day. This shoot was a very good one - Barsad should be happy with what we've done."

"I've no doubt that he will."

Bane was packing up his bag and pulling it over his shoulder. John felt an itch in his head, the one that told him he needed to do something right now. He started talking before he'd thought it through.

"Would you like to grab something to eat? We've been at this a while."

He waited a moment for Bane to object, but he remained still, waiting for John to continue.

"I know you'll have a strict meal plan and stuff, but there's a place around the corner which will fix just about anything you ask for."

Bane did the head tilt again. John continued with renewed optimism, "It's really near a gym and a health center, so they cater to picky eaters, basically. Everything is organic and stuff."

"That sounds acceptable."

John had never been so happy to hear one of his ideas deemed acceptable.

Before they left, Bane insisted on washing out his tea mug.

 

= = =

 

Once they were seated in the busy cafe, Bane ordered an ungodly amount of steamed fish with a daring side-order of steamed spinach. John resisted making any Popeye references and asked the server for hummus and grilled veg on rye "plus two of your Chia seed puddings." They were the closest thing to junk food on the menu.

"Your pictures of the cabaret performers are very good. They're part of a collection, correct? The black and white pictures at the end of the book."

John almost spat out his mouthful of mineral water.

The 'cabaret performers' Bane had to be talking about were shots of various burlesque dancers, strippers, drag queens and kings, and other exotic creatures John knew from the alt scene. Taking a quick breath to recover from the shock, he replied, "My Masks I series. Yeah. I'd been shooting club scenes for a while but moved to black and white when I wanted to create a kind of unified work. It was my first solo gallery show. Afterwards I did Masks II - creative name, I know - on more people with alter egos, amateur wrestlers, beauty pageant contestants, reality TV performers. All kinds, really."

"And why 'masks'?"

"Do you know the quote from Oscar Wilde?"

"'Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.'"

John wasn't surprised that Bane could recite Wilde's words verbatim. That was the other thing he shared with certain ex-cons, that John hadn't been able to quite put his finger on before now. He had an air of bookishness to him, signs of an amateur scholar's dedication to language and history.

Nodding, John said "People are willing to reveal themselves much more when they're in some sort of disguise."

Across the table, he could feel the broadening of Bane's attention, and elaborated.

"I used to go to these underground club nights in the Narrows when I was a teenager. People would show up early with these big garbage bags and cram themselves into the bathrooms - which were not exactly luxurious - to get themselves ready. The bags would open, makeup, costumes, wigs, you wouldn't believe it. And the transformations that people made with the masks they wore, it fascinated me. Still does."

"Was that where you became an artist?"

'Artist' was a word John struggled with. He didn’t grow up thinking that kids like him could make art, not for a living.

"Kind of. I was never interested in cameras when I was young, I used to fidget when we had to do school portraits and stuff - I was in care for a while, and every year they made you take a new picture, for your file. I hated that. Felt like I was on sale."

Bane had leaned forward, his hands peaked in front of him. John kept on, "Which is ironic, because at this one club I got scouted by an agency and ended up doing a little modelling. That was what started me off. "

"Really. Modelling."

John shrugged. "I know, at my height, but this was when I was 15, 16. I did, like, teen boy catalog work. Once I made the cover of a stationery sale insert in the _Gotham Gazette_  holding up some manila folders like this - " He fanned out his arms and grinned like zealot at Bane, whose lips twitched with something John fancied might be the atomic-level beginnings of a smile.

"That was as close as I got to a Vogue cover. I didn't take it all that seriously but I made some friends and a little money, that was more than enough. Then I got taken to this show. It was on at some tiny gallery, and it was all street photography. I only went because there was meant to be a party afterwards. But I hadn't see pictures like that before."

"How so?"

"Images of places I knew, in the city, not the tourist board version, but the neighborhoods I lived around. People I could recognize. But they looked different, too. I didn't know why. And that annoyed me - I hate not being able to figure something out."

John paused, looking hard at Bane, who made a tiny nod to indicate that this might well be common ground between them.

"I got my own camera. My friends and I did graffiti, and I recorded it all - which in retrospect is stupid, because I made a record of our crimes. But they were beautiful crimes."

Bane moved his head to the side, breaking eye contact for the first time. "I understand that you were once a police officer."

It always came out sooner or later. John wasn't surprised that Bane had done his research.

"I was. Once I was out of the system at 18, I went right back in. Got into the Academy, became a rookie GCPD officer. I never stopped with the photography, though. My first exhibition - Masks I - was done mostly while I was still on the force. Then Masks II was after I left to do photography full time."

"What changed?"

Bane's directness appealed to John. One of the things he loved about photography was the instant connection it made, the straight line it drew between viewer and viewed. People took so many more paths to get close.

"It wasn't one big thing," John began drawing circles on the table top with his index finger. "A trickle, then an avalanche. I barely slept for a couple of years, going between shifts and then taking my uniform off and disappearing into the city. I did still party, but no drugs - just pure adrenaline. But the people close to me could tell that I was only living half-in each world. Clubs, bars, then on the beat, at the station, always on the edges, watching people. It's not great for building trust, it turns out."

"Trust is many people's first instinct with police."

"Not yours, I can tell."

Bane lifted his hands slightly, in acknowledgement. He held John's gaze. "I do not respect the appearance of authority, as the masses do. I respect authority that is earned."

"Believe it or not, I think I get that."

"You seem to be a natural-born questioner. The police force is not the obvious choice of profession for your type. I have known many rebels, and they tend to work badly in groups."

"Ah, but I wanted to be a detective, more than anything. Ask questions all day."

"But you became a photographer."

"Lots of similarities. I look at you, and all I want to do is find out is your why and how. And it's not polite to just ask complete strangers their life stories, but if you look - look really closely - you can see a whole bunch."

Bane looked into the middle distance for a few seconds, then back to John. "Like you, I have lived several different lives. When I first came to Gotham, I hated it. Then, years later, I had to make some changes. My trust in the people I was working for had been irreparably broken. Of all the places I considered moving to, Gotham was the least appealing, but it turned out to be the only one that made sense."

He held a hand up as if to weigh his decision in it. "The city I had once found repellent, I saw potential in. There is a lack of black and white in Gotham, more grey. I prefer sharper distinctions, but I found that -"

Bane stopped mid-sentence and frowned, looking over John's shoulder. Before John could come up with a question, Bane asked one.

"Excuse me. Would you prefer this table?"

John turned to see that Bane was talking to a customer who'd just come in, a redhead in a wheelchair carrying a slick-looking laptop.

"Really? If it's no bother,"

"None. Here."

John already knew that Bane always moved quickly and with purpose, but it was still arresting to watch him say two words, stand up, and scoop four plates, two sets of utensils, and a water glass off the table top in a split-second. John tried to do his part by picking up his unused napkin.

Relocating themselves to a tiny table near the back, Bane wedged his body on the nervous-looking chair. They were much closer now, their knees resting next to each other. There was barely space for their plates and Bane's forearms. John leaned forward, acutely aware of the points where their legs were touching and the proximity of Bane’s face to his.

"You were saying, about Gotham. What you found here,"

Bane made a fist and then slowly unclenched it, leaving it palm-up on the table top. Finally he said, "I find that I breathe easier here than I have in years."

 

= = =

 

John lingered over his edits of Bane's shoot. The itch in his head came back as he looked over them. There were more than enough pictures for Barsad to use for whatever nefarious purposes he had planned. Bane was outrageously photogenic. A few of the black and white prints were, John felt for sure, some of his best work.

He encrypted the files and sent it over as a zip file to Barsad, cc'ing Bane. He didn't need to include an invoice, as Bane had settled payment immediately. It was perhaps the only time John had been a little sad at being paid, knowing that he didn't have many other reasons to get in touch with him.

Two hours after the pictures had been sent, Bane sent a reply. John did a little dance in the studio, discovering mid-spin that Cass was watching him. She pulled her ear bud out and asked what had happened.

"I'm having a good day on the internet."

She nodded with understanding, a slave to Tumblr likes, then went back to her work.

John approached his phone feeling tingly. It might be a simple thank you, acknowledgement of receipt, or perhaps John had somehow made a mistake with the file despite checking it over seven times.

 

>   _From: bane.dorrance@the-reckoninginc.com_
> 
> _To: john@nightwingphotography.com_
> 
> _Subject: Re: The complete set with edits_
> 
> _John._
> 
> _This work is excellent. I regret not taking up your offer to review the pictures at the studio, as I have much to learn about the field of photography and your clear mastery of technique._
> 
> _You mentioned another project you wished me to sit for. I am have not decided whether I wish to participate, but I would like to talk with you further. If you are willing._

Bane added his apartment address to the email, and suggested that John come around that evening. If he was available.

Darn tooting John was available.

 

= = =

 

The League Building was one of the most imposing skyscrapers in Gotham, a hulking tower block that made up for its lack of architectural grace with some of the most spectacular views across the river. From Bane's 22nd floor apartment, John could even see the Blüdhaven skyline picked out in lights.

Bane came to stand next to him by the floor-to-ceiling window and pointed to the southern horizon. "Do you know the area at all?"

"Yeah, I've spent more time in the 'Haven than most Gothamites - you know, the kind who drive through it with their doors locked and windows rolled all the way up.  I was fostered out there for almost a year. It was a rough time, I hated my placement, but I got to know the streets. Later on, I did some training furloughs with the local force. Sweet Jesus, that was something else."

"How so?"

Bane passed him a whiskey. John didn't really know anything about whiskey apart from the getting shitfaced aspect, but he trusted that the stuff Bane offered him was the best. Whatever business Bane was in ("Logistics," he'd told John, as if that meant anything), business was clearly good. His apartment was furnished minimally, if not entirely spartan, but it was nearly twice the size of John's place. The only decoration he'd seen were some beautifully stark framed terrain maps on the wall.

"People talk a lot of shit about the GCPD, and it's not perfect, trust me, I know, but things aren't nearly as bad as the old days - Gordon and Dent really did clean the force up a bunch. But in Blüdhaven things are still run OG."

"I know of Gordon's reform program, but what do you mean by that - 'OG'?"

"Original Gangster. Old school-style. But too many of the gangsters there still have a badge."

Bane made a rumbling sound of consideration. "It sounds intriguing. I would like to visit."

John took his first sip of whiskey. It was like some alchemist had managed to combine cashmere with lava. He had to stop himself from gulping it down.  

"I have a potential subject in Blüdhaven, an eighty-year-old contortionist. Was planning to go over and see her next weekend. If you're free you're welcome to tag along."

"This is for your project?"

"Circus, yeah." John took another sip, and let his tongue loosen. "It's based on this collection of pictures I found online. There's a site, GothamHistoryPics.org, it's such a time suck for me, run by an archivist at the Martha Wayne Library. I found this set of pictures of circus performers, some of the earliest known photos ever taken in Gotham. They used to set up in the muddy fields just over there,"

John pointed out the window to the East. Bane moved his own hand to follow John's.

"By the South Pier? That's where the financial district is located now."

"From one sideshow to another, in a hundred years. You know Fichtner Street, that runs behind the stock exchange? That's named after a ringmaster. He was also a con man who got killed after trying to rip off one of the local mob bosses."

"Fascinating." Bane didn't seem to be capable of sarcasm, so John continued.

"I stayed up all night looking at these pictures. The next day, I went and made a bunch of prints of them, and stuck them around my apartment. Figured I'd get sick of it, the fascination would drop off, but not at all. That's how I knew I had to do something with it."

"What is this something you're doing?"

John shrugged and sipped some more whiskey. "I find a subject with some parallel to the originals - for Fichtner’s equivalent I shot Mervyn O'Malley in a top hat standing on top of his desk. He loved it, of course."

"O'Malley was convicted of property investment fraud ten years ago, and now he's a reality television star. I do not understand this culture sometimes."

John shook his head, smiling at Bane's disapproving frown. "Yeah, he's a scammer, but he only ripped off yuppies who were bilked into buying holiday homes on a non-existent tropical island. That's the kind of _chutzpah_  that Gotham City appreciates. When he got out of prison, the tabloids ran 'Welcome Home Merv' headlines like he was the local boy made good. It's kinda hard to explain."

"Yes."

Which was the Bane equivalent of _no shit_. John laughed, and his host gestured at the empty glass in his hands. John smiled, abashed.

"Maybe a little more. Please."

Nodding, Bane moved over to the kitchen and opened up one of the brushed steel cabinets set into the wall. There was a dazzling array of bottles inside.

"I thought you would enjoy the peated single malt. It starts off sweet on the first taste, then reveals more complexity with time."

John walked over to the bar-style counter. "You're secretly an aesthete, aren't you?"

Bane paused, and John panicked for a split-second. But his gaze was soft as he handed John his drink.

"I appreciate mastery in all forms."

"Thanks. Uh, I want to toast you but, you'll need a glass. It can't be good luck to toast with only one drinker."

Pulling a bottle of mineral water from a cavernous fridge, Bane filled a tumbler and lifted it up towards him. Time for John to break out his entire supply of Gaelic.

"Sláinte!"

Bane tapped their glasses together. "Sláinte."

As John sipped, Bane spoke. "Tell me. Do the people in your portraits - these Circus ones - they do not mind the comparisons you're making?"

John shook his head. "You might be surprised the number of people who relate to the term 'circus freak', at least in Gotham. It's not a phrase I use, but it works for them. I've not been publicising the project at all, but once word got out I've been inundated with requests from would-be subjects."

Bane leaned forward on the counter, getting closer to John's eye level. "Your Masks photographs were also about adopted identities, weren't they?"

"Yeah," John wasn't sure where Bane was taking this, though he had a hunch.

"It seems to be a theme of yours."

"You know Wilde, have you ever read Kurt Vonnegut?"

Bane nodded. John continued, "He's one of my favorites - I read _Slaughterhouse Five_ like, twenty times in a row when I was a kid. He once said, 'We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.'"

John waited for Bane's response. He replied thoughtfully, "It was taking photographs that led to you leaving the police."

There was something deeply unsurprising about Bane's accuracy. John found himself awash with relief. He said, "Yeah. It was when I was doing Masks that I began to see that I was kidding myself about my life."

Straightening up, Bane placed his water glass down. "There is something I would like to show you. In my bedroom."

 

= = =

 

The light was low in Bane’s sparse bedroom. A stack of books were piled neatly on a sturdy-looking desk, but there was no other furniture except for a clothes rack, a neatly-made bed, and a small side table with a tentacle coming out of it.

Bane sat on the bed and waved at John to sit next to him. John kept his hands gripped tightly on his knees as Bane carefully lifted the tentacle from where it wound around a console. It was a long opaque tube with what looked like a harness attached to the end.

"This is my CPAP machine."

John rummaged around in his head for the right term. "Sleep apnea?"

Bane nodded. "A few years ago, I had a heart attack in the middle of the night. It almost killed me. Before then, I had never felt..."

He sat with the machine's tubing in his hands. John waited, letting the silence between them become comfortable.

Bane raised his eyes back to John's. "I had never felt so vulnerable. I was a fighter, and we used to say that only cowards died in their sleep."

"That sounds terrifying."

Bane nodded. "An enemy I couldn't face. Who only came when I was asleep."

His hands opened, revealing a plastic mask. John lifted it from his palms and felt its weight. It was lighter than it looked. Perhaps it was because of how gravity gave way whenever John got close to Bane.  

Moving slowly, he placed the breathing apparatus over Bane's face, hooking the elastic straps over his ears and letting his thumbs stroke lightly over the skin of his cheeks.

Bane lifted his hands to meet John's, holding the mask in place. Then he took it off, but kept their fingers entwined.

John wanted to kiss him. He also didn't want to get his ass kicked.

Bane spoke first. "I never thought of it as anything but a sign of weakness. But your photographs made me think about it differently. I am not used to such a world, where people embrace their differences so overtly."

Letting his hand settle a little more in Bane's huge paw, John leaned forward. "I know. I mean, I don't know - where you're from, what your life has been like. But I remember how when I first went to a gay club, I couldn't believe that there was a place where being whoever you really were, and be accepted for it, was possible."

Bane's thumb stroked over the pads of John's fingers. He felt the thickly calloused skin and thought how if Bane made a fist, he could crush him in seconds. Looking into his steel-gray eyes, John felt a surge of bravery.

When John touched his lips to Bane's, he closed his eyes, not sure if he was about to get rejected, murdered, or kissed back.

At first Bane remained still, warm and dry at John's tentative touch. Then he moved slowly, pressing his lips back. They were soft, the opposite of how the hard flesh of his fingers felt as they curled over John's hand, their necks tilting to get a few inches closer to one another. Steady and insistent as a drum beat, they opened their mouths to each other. Bane tasted like salt, and tea.

John wasn’t going to let a perfectly good bed go to waste, so he leaned back and tugged Bane down next to him. They ended up lying side by side, legs dangling off the end to keep their feet off the sheets. Bane kept his hands resting on John's waist. It felt as comforting as an anchor in a stormy sea.

Eventually, they stopped, John catching his breath and letting himself lean back a little. Bane lifted up on his shoulder, his hands suspended mid-air. It was the most uncertain gesture John had ever seen him make. Then he looked up and lifted away, pivoting around to sit with his feet on the ground.

John wanted to touch him again. But this had been about something more vulnerable than just lust, and through the white noise of blood rushing to his head, he knew that. He took Bane's outstretched hand and let himself be pulled to his feet and walked out of the quiet, darkened room.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The next week was a busy one for John, and he had to make time to obsessively check his phone for messages from Bane. Scrolling through Barsad's Instagram account was considerably more interesting than chasing up invoices, or having to explain the basics of copyright law to the publisher of a popular fashion blog who had used some of his work without credit.

Bane was attending an open workshop on bench presses at a prominent gym on Sunday. He'd mentioned it as John was getting his coat on to leave his apartment that night, after they'd awkwardly got up off Bane's bed. There had been no hug, not even a handshake, on his way out, but Bane had talked about the workshop, asked John if he knew where Hush Fitness was, and even though John said that he did, told him the address. Which John took as a proof that his presence there was desired.

On Friday, John was huddled in the corner of a fun-sized gazebo at Giordano Botanical Gardens, the location for an engagement shoot, politely ignoring the heated argument that had broken out behind him between the prospective bride and groom over their wedding registry. He tapped out an email to Bane about how he was looking forward to the workshop, that he was interested to see how much Bane would bench, and then he made a joke about how Bane could bench him as a demonstration of his might, which he at least had the sense to delete before he hit send.

He stuffed the phone back in his pocket and turned around to discover that the your-mother-picked-everything-on-our-registry fight had evolved into the that-bitch-Anna-is-still-contacting-you-I-saw-her-pictures-on-your-laptop fight. Looking over at Fiona, the make up artist, they exchanged the resigned expressions of veteran wedding vendors who'd seen it all before. Then the would-be bride pulled off her high heels and began chasing her fiance, who in his haste to evade her wrath tripped and landed face-first in a koi pond.

John couldn't resist. He lifted his camera and took a picture.

= = =

Approximately one hour and two shots of rum later, he was at a bar with Fiona exchanging war stories. They had both agreed that today's shoot was one for the record books.

"Don't worry," Fiona had told him, "the parents have deep pockets and a burning desire to see their little girl get the perfect day of her dreams."

"I'd rather not get the job than witness a disastrous marriage up close, that's what reality TV is for - excuse me," His phone had just buzzed and he'd pulled it out of his jacket before he'd even thought about it. Fiona gave him a 'no problem' hand wave and turned to order another round while he read Bane's response.

> _I look forward to seeing you on Sunday. It has been an eventful day. Barsad posted a picture on the internet that has received some attention. It is not one of your pictures, although you were the inspiration for it; it was done with rather less planning than our shoot, and, I believe, substantially less art, although Barsad may not agree._

Of course Barsad had put up a picture while John was in the middle of someone else's temper tantrum, and of course he found out about it when he was in a dive bar with infuriatingly slow wifi. He took the Mojito that Fiona had bought him and offered a quick precis of the situation as the picture loaded. "Guy I'm into. He’s got a new Instagram post."

"Ooh, let's see!"

He stuck his phone on the table and they both watched the picture come into focus. Like Bane had said, it wasn't very artful, though Barsad had stuck a black and white filter on it. The caption read:

_Posted by @deadshot_barsad_

_This is the most #powerful man I know, and also the most #brave. #Bane is strong enough to be open about #sleepapnea and using a #cpapmachine #courage #powerlifter #theshadow #whyitrain_

The photo was of Bane, looking directly at the camera, wearing the CPAP mask. It looked like it was taken in his bedroom, and John felt a momentary pang of jealousy - that he hadn't been asked to take the picture, that he was far away from that bed, and those arms, and instead viewing them from a scuzzy basement bar that smelled of stale beer and desperation.

It had got 250 likes already, and a bit more research uncovered why. Killer Croc had tweeted about it, praising Bane for "talking abt a srs issue in our community". Fiona didn't quite get it, and John explained that sleep apnea was more common among those with heavy body mass, so a lot of lifters and bodybuilders were affected.

"That's cool then, that he's being open about it."

"Yeah. It is." John felt the jealousy fade as he realized what a big deal this was for Bane. Putting this information out into the world was not a choice he'd make on a whim.

"No offence, different tastes and all, but your guy there? Looks scary as fuck."

John looked at the picture again, his thumb ghosting over the image of the face he'd had in his hands a few days ago. He felt a softness inside his chest, and realized that he was a goner.

"Trust me, Fiona, he's only about ten times scarier in real life."

= = = 

  
Beast carefully moved her petticoat to sit over her knees, fluffing out the ruffles with long, gunmetal-colored nails. She sat upright on a wicker chair in a replica of one of John's favorite portraits from the Gotham archive of sideshow performers, a woman identified only as 'Suzanna La Quill, Tattooed Women and Fire Eater'. As well as wearing a matching frilly dress, Beast had her own fire eating equipment neatly arranged next to her.

Tara, her partner of fourteen years, had drawn many of the pieces that covered Beast's limbs and chest. She stood next to Bane, cradling their tiny mutt Early Grey in her arms, wondering out loud how much a tattooed women could've earned in Suzanna's era.

John was doing more work on his Circus project, and he'd invited Bane along with him for the shoot. After crossing the bridge to Blüdhaven to meet Terry the contortionist, Bane had proved to be a handy part-time assistant, capable of carrying large bags, moving props around, and clearing busy pedestrian walkways in moments with a single scowl.

On the way over he'd told Bane that finding a model to simply re-enact Suzanna was easy - if he'd stuck a flier up in any East Gotham organic supermarket asking for tattooed young women, he'd be inundated with offers - but he'd known Tara and Beast for years, and they'd discussed collaborating together several times. Besides, between them they had an impressive knowledge of the city's tattoo scene, and a deep appreciation of the heritage that he wanted to celebrate.

John answered in between shots. "Good money. Records suggest up to a couple a grand a month - more than most male performers. Plus we know Suzanna did fire performance, as well."

Tara whistled in admiration. "She was a double threat. Her ink was beautiful, too - any idea who did it?"

"B, can you lower your chin to the left a little - yes, that's great. It was probably done by her partner or father. He may well have traveled with her, picking up work alongside her show. The Gotham docks might've been very lucrative for an artist. The city was always welcoming to circuses and travelling shows, unlike Metropolis, which was always fining them and throwing them out of town."

"Typical. They've always been a bunch of weenies. A councilman there once tried to ban our act." Tara waved her hand dismissively. Performance artists, their shows included smashing bottles on each other, Beast stapling her own tongue, and Tara getting suspended mid-air by her body piercings. It had been a little rich for Metropolis's tastes.

Beast smiled, her white teeth looking sharp against her bruise-blue lipstick. "Gotham's eternal welcoming cry - bring us your freaks, maniacs, and weirdos, we'll treat them just as shittily as we do anyone else."

Bane made a sound that John, if he didn't know better, would've called laughter.

= = =

Walking back to John's place from the shoot took four times as long as the subway ride taking them there had, but they'd discovered they both enjoyed long walks. John would talk about the secret histories of buildings and alleyways that he'd picked up first as a street rat then later on the beat. Bane would contribute with something from his vast knowledge of, as far as John could tell, practically every subject in the world. Neither of them minded the wind that whirled around them as the night bedded in around them.

Since the kissing on the bed that first time, they had kept things PG. John didn't want to push Bane, who was still an enigma to him in so many ways. Whether it was internalized homophobia, long-time defense mechanisms still firing, or a strict code of chivalry - John wasn't sure. He knew, rationally, Bane was attracted to him, and was reminded by every lingering touch of a hand on his back as John was guided through a doorway, or the arms that came up either side of his body when he stopped to take a shot in the evening light. And he knew that Bane was smart enough to pick up John's less than subtle signals that he admired far more about Bane than his large vocabulary.

They had made out one more time since, on John's couch while watching TV, something John had never done during his teenage years (not many spare couches available for horny teenage activity in the orphanage), and he would bet hard cash that Bane hadn't, either, because they both participated enthusiastically but carefully, as if a parental figure would crash through the door at any moment. And only during the commercial breaks.

"Do you have another subject lined up?" Bane asked as they walked in, unloading bags and lights on the kitchen counter. John rolled his shoulders, always freshly amazed at how much better they felt not carrying all that weight around his neck.

"Some ideas, but nothing solid lined up. I've got a contact at an urban farm to follow up on, she's a horse trainer. Former stock broker who threw it all in to work with rescue animals."

"Hold still." Bane's huge hands reached to his neck, thumbs making circles in the tight muscles. John made a frankly feline noise of relief. Bane tutted. "You should let me take more of the load."

"Not like you pick heavy things up as a hobby, or anything... God, that feels good. I need to keep some strength up, for when you're not around to act as my beautiful assistant."

Beast had called him that today at the shoot. Bane had only raised his eyebrows at her in response and carried on winding up cables.

"You have excellent muscle tone. It is the maintenance of it that is the issue."

Bane's fingers pressed in harder, reaching down under his shirt collar. John felt tingles run up and down his spine with the contact.

"Wanna see more of it, big guy?" John was joking, but he could feel his skin warm up with invitation, tension ebbing out of him, and all he wanted was for Bane's hands to keep moving on him like that.

Instead they slid around to his chest to unzip his jacket. The liquid sound of it gave John chills. Shrugging it off with the hoodie and button-down he'd had on underneath, John turned slowly around to face Bane, wearing only a tank. He had hands, too, and he used them to pull Bane forward by the shaggy lapels of his greatcoat. Sometimes John wasn't sure what he was attracted to more, Bane or Bane's military surplus wardrobe.

"Come closer," John said as Bane leaned forward, his hands tucking around John's waist as his massive coat fell to the floor with a thunderous sound. The kiss was slow at first, the warmest point in the cold room.

Bane's arms wrapped around him as solid as steel, making John felt light as a feather and entirely safe. It was as if Bane and him were a fortress, completely secure and standing apart from the world. Hitching his legs around Bane's torso he hooked his ankles over each other and let Bane kiss him comprehensively.

They were close enough now for John to confirm that Bane was very definitely attracted to him, unless he had an undeclared fetish for camera bag straps. Holding on to Bane's colossal shoulders he tried not to seem too desperate for it, but Bane picked up the rhythm of the kiss. Now they were battling, lips quick and wet, John's breath catching, Bane's exhalation hot on his face.

It hadn't occurred to John until Bane started walking that they'd been standing in the middle of his kitchen for all that time. The display of strength made his knees feel watery, and he slackened his hold around Bane's middle.

"Oh!" Bane backed him up to a useful wall - this might be John's new favorite wall - and ground their bodies together with a little more force, his mouth moving on to John's collarbone.

John just held on and babbled. "God, yes, c'mon, you're so huge..."

It wasn't just the friction between them, it was the suggestion of how much power Bane was keeping a lid on. Unlike John, he didn't even seem to be sweating.

Pinning John in place with his torso, Bane grunted as he used his hands to work his way under the tank top, rolling it up and over John's neck. Happy to oblige, John flicked it off his shoulders and let it ping floor-wards while Bane sucked a bruise into his left pec as he undid John's belt.

"You're thorough," John noted out loud with what was left of his breath, and Bane proved him right by continuing south to do deadly things to his nipple. John's hand clenched around Bane's neck, some of the only flesh he could reach. While he was stripped to the waist Bane was still bundled up like an ominous Santa Claus.

Between gasps, John croaked out a simple request. "You think we can do something about your clothing situation?"

Barely pausing from his work of pushing the waistband of John's jeans down under his hipbones, Bane looked up, eyes narrowed, as if he had to concede John his point. Next thing John knew, he'd been hoisted up off the wall and the room was tipping over upside down.

Bane had him in a fireman's carry over his shoulder and they were travelling down the hallway to the bedroom at the speed of light. John whooped with joy - this was better than any roller coaster he'd ever been on - though Bane didn't quite fling him on the mattress like a helpless-but-willing-to-be-ravished damsel, as he was secretly hoping for; instead he found himself placed on the bed carefully.

Less care was given to his jeans, which were pulled down to his ankles with brute force. John just lay there watching with admiration as Bane unlaced John's sneakers in order to strip him down to his underwear.

"You really go from zero to a hundred in ten seconds, don'tcha?"

Standing at the foot of the bed, Bane over like Caesar surveying his kingdom. Then he pulled his shirt over his head and looked like the most shredded Caesar to ever rule.

"I want you."

When Bane spoke, his words seemed to hang in the air like proclamations. Even if he was just discussing the right temperature to boil tea. But that short sentence didn't so much hang in the air as reach out and throat-punch John while grabbing him by the balls.

They were both visibly hard, and John could feel his grin stretching across his face. Folding his hands behind his head, he let his legs splay open and tried to look as conquerable as possible. "You got me, man."

Truthfully, Bane had got him from the moment he walked out on stage and looked down at a barbell like it had insulted his sister.

Watching Bane unbuckle his belt and wrap it around his hand gave John all sorts of dirty ideas, though all he did with it was drape it over a chair and proceed to dispatch with his trousers. In between wishing he had his camera with him, John drank in the sight of his tree trunk thighs, the dense, powerhouse build of his torso, and the shape of one very intriguing penis making itself known against the fabric of his boxers.

There was no hint of seduction or tease in Bane's movements, just the unhurried, deliberate action of a man who wanted to get naked ASAP. John felt his own nipples tighten and his pulse relocate to his dick. He kept his hands laced together, resisting the urge to grab himself through his briefs.

The soft clunk of Bane's boots being placed to one side preceded him standing up, fixing his stare on John, and pushing the waistband of his underwear down.

And then there was Bane's cock. In the flesh. Erect, thick, long, with a slight curve to the right, and uncut. It had been the subject of much speculation on John's behalf, and seeing it at last made one word blare in his mind like a fire alarm: _gimme_.

Kicking the bed impatiently, he said, "Will you get up here already?"

Bane grabbed hold of one of his ankles mid-air, and held it there. "I am not going to rush getting to know your body."

That was something else to hear, but it didn't shut John up. "That dick of yours sure looks in a hurry."

Bane dropped his leg and walked around to the side of bed, his fingertips trailing along John's side. "It has been...sometime since I was intimate with a partner. You are strong, John, but I don't yet know how much you can take."

"How much - uh,"

"Pleasure. Force." Bane leaned on the bed, looming over John, cupping his face. "Everyone has a different capacity."

John felt like he was expected to say something other than _oh Jesus please fuck me hard right the hell now_ , but all he could come up with was a guttural moan from where his stomach was flipping over itself.

"Please keep your hands there, if you don't mind." Bane's tone was as gentle as John had ever heard.

John fastened his hands behind his head, his breath frozen in his lungs, his cock hard as diamonds. He managed to say in a shaky voice, "For the record, you don't have to say please. Not in my bed."

Bane hummed with consideration, looking deep into John's eyes before nodding with satisfaction. His hands moved along the bend of John's arms and skated down to his chest. John's mouth went dry as his nipples were lightly pinched, his pecs kneaded, the wings of his rib cage outlined. Just before Bane reached his underwear, he stopped, looking at him thoughtfully with a deep crease between his eyes.

Leaning down, he kissed John, who felt all his nerve endings light up like a Gotham Christmas. Held there beneath Bane's weight, he felt that warm enclosure of pure safety again. Scattered thoughts shot through his mind like fluttering banners - _safe, protected, cared for. Cared about._ And he knew thinking like this was far too early, too risky, too hopeful; but John had always been a slut for hope.

The kissing got busier, and John's hips began to rock upwards. Bane made a noise in the back of his throat, and John could feel it reverberate all the way down his chest. His hands tightened on John, still the right side of comfortable, and John had to keep a firm hold on his hands to stop himself reaching up to pull Bane farther down on top of him. Instead he pushed up, bowing his spine and letting his mouth soften under Bane's plush lips.

Grunting, Bane reached down and grabbed a handful of John's underwear. John lifted his hips and let them be yanked down and away somewhere, his cock happy for the release. Then Bane moved at the speed of light, positioning himself with John tucked under him, his legs tugged around Bane's waist, his thick arms bracketing John's head.

"Almost close enough," John breathed out. "Can I touch you?"

Bane shook his head slightly. "Not yet. Soon."

John settled for wrapping his thighs around Bane's trunk as tightly as possible, enjoying the feel of all that heavy flesh between them. Bane's hands were still busy, testing, stroking, a stray finger hooking into John's mouth for him to suckle, another curving over his hipbone and along the tingly skin of his inner thighs. Almost tentatively, he bent forward and pressed their erections against each other, making John thrash around under him.

With one spit-slick finger, Bane pressed into the cleft of John's body, with the deliberation John had observed so many times and felt incapable of now. "Please," he moaned, all reserve utterly shot. "Come _on_ , Bane."

"Free your hands."

All of Bane available to touch. John grabbed on for all he was worth.

Kissing him again, Bane keep them pushed together, the irresistible grinding getting more frantic. He pulled his face back a fraction. "This is what you want, John?"

"I want all of it." John knew his voice sounded reedy and desperate.

"So be it. Are there appropriate resources?"

John didn't know what the hell Bane meant by that, or why one of his eyebrows was arched up, until the red hot fog in his head parted for a moment and a condom-shaped light bulb went off. "Side drawer," he responded, flicking his head towards the bedside table. "Black bag."

Stretching out one of those massive arms, Bane flicked open the drawer and pulled out the nylon pouch, because John liked to keep things neat and there was no shame in that, though at that moment he did sort of wish that his Sex Kit wasn't a freebie he'd got with a shower gel promotion. But it still looked hot when Bane unzipped it with his mouth, his eyes fixed on John's face, his enormous cock heavy on John's belly.

Again, Bane could work quickly when he felt like it. It seemed to be barely moments later when his lube-wet fingers were circling over John's entrance, John gasping with the dual exertion of relaxing and hitching his hips up further into Bane's lap.

He'd finger-fucked himself that morning in the shower, half-dreaming of something like this happening, but it hadn't been anything to compare to Bane's thick fingers twisting into him with an instinctive feel for how his muscles would yield. Breathing in deep, John let himself be opened up inch by inch, like a silk cord being unwound. Bane peppered kisses down his neck, whispering encouragement.

Two fingers worked in and out of him, and John let himself enjoy it, gliding on the edge. He let his eyes close, distantly hearing the sound of a foil packet being ripped open, and opened them again to crane his neck up to enjoy the sight of Bane rolling a condom on one-handed.

"Very dexterous."

John meant it as a compliment, but from the grumpy noise Bane made in response, maybe it sounded a little sarcastic. Wriggling his hips, John smiled back at him.

"You're ready, then?"

Bane pinched his hip. "I'll let you know when you're ready, Blake."

"Oh come on, I'm prepped, will you just get busy with that - _oh!_ "

Pushing the head of his cock inside, Bane ensured John shut the hell up, too busy trying to remember to breath and enjoy the sudden fullness. Bane fussed with the placement of John's legs, tucking them under his arms, and then began a slow slide into the clasp of John's body.

John keened, his body shuddering with the effort of taking all of Bane in, feeling like he was made out of quicksilver, metal and liquid at once. Bane moaned, a rough-edged rumble that John felt to his toes, and pulled out slowly. He lifted John in his arms then began thrusting in an even, unstinting rhythm. It was all John could do to hang on for the ride. He had his own set of tricks for the bedroom, but any gymnastics were beyond him right now with Bane pushing into his core. He could feel his balls pull up tightly, knew he was on the precipice of coming, but could only babble noise as his skin grew taut on his body.

Holding on to the back of Bane's head, the surety of his skull under his hands, John rode out the whiplash of his orgasm, tucking his face into the warmth of Bane's shoulder. Bane kept moving, drawing out the pleasure of John's release with every snap of his hips.

John recovered enough of his body to hook his ankles together and rose up to meet every stroke. Bane's back curved under his hands, damp with sweat, and John thought that between them they were generating enough heat to burn another hole in the ozone layer.

He watched Bane's face as he came, the tiny muscles around his eyes twitch, the slackness of his mouth, the softness in those grey eyes. John sank down into the mattress, feeling like a runner after a marathon. Bane blanketed his body and breathed heavily.

After a minute of steadying themselves, their bodies drifted apart, the post-sex administration taking over. Bane found the wastepaper basket while John located the hand wipes he'd stashed in the Sex Kit and congratulated himself on having the foresight to get the jumbo-sized packet.

Soon enough they'd laid back down, drawn to each other again.

John pulled back from a slow kiss and sat up on one elbow.

“I think I could look at you forever.”

Bane did that eyebrow thing again, making John laugh. He kissed the top of Bane's nose in retaliation.

“You might not admire me as much once you hear the sound that I make on that machine."

John snorted. “The CPAP? Are you kidding me? I used to share a dorm room. With six other teenage boys. I can sleep through anything. It’s like my superpower."

His face slackening with relaxation, Bane settled down into the pillows. John asked, “Do you need to go back to your place and use it?”

Shaking his head, Bane replied, “Not this evening. I can meditate instead of sleeping. It is a technique I picked up in Tibet.”

“Woah. OK. I mean, if you’re sure, and want to stick around?”

Resting a hand on the curve of John's hip, Bane let their foreheads meet. "I cannot think of a single reason to ever let you go, John Blake."

Feeling the air between them heat up again, John held on tighter to Bane's body.

"Then don't."

**Author's Note:**

> At least 760lbs of thanks to [crookedspoon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon) for the beta work; any remaining mistakes are my own.


End file.
